


Begin Again

by satb31



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Declarations Of Love, Falling In Love, Infidelity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Regret, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre and Courfeyrac tried to be together, but it could never work -- so they have each found other lovers. But they cannot really forget each other, so they spend a night together -- which impacts Joly and Prouvaire very differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begin Again

They lie side by side, not touching each other, like effigies on some ancient tomb. But they are both most certainly alive, their chests heaving as their breath comes out in short bursts, the result of the coupling has just come to its completion.

A coupling that both men now realize will never happen again.

It is a relationship that works so beautifully in the bedroom -- whenever they come together Courfeyrac’s compact frame fits with Combeferre’s long body like they are two halves of one whole. From the first night they came together just over one year ago -- a night just like this one, a night precipitated by political debate and fueled by copious amounts of alcohol -- they were able to match each other’s rhythms and paces almost perfectly, their years of knowing each other so well translating into an almost instinctive knowledge how to bring each other into a state of complete ecstasy.

But outside the bedroom is a different story.

Outside the bedroom ecstasy is elusive -- theirs is a relationship fraught with petty disputes and long-held grudges, a festival of mismatched expectations. Combeferre feels deeply about the state of the world, and Courfeyrac wishes to help each inhabitant of said world, but both are also stubborn and temperamental, and simple conversations about mundane issues often devolve into screaming fights that only their mutual best friend Enjolras can effectively mediate. As friends, it works -- this has been the state of their friendship for so long they know of no other way than to work their way through an endless cycle of anger and reconciliation.

But as lovers and partners it is hopeless. Each man needs someone who can be his solace in the world, someone milder, more conciliatory, who can talk him down from his anger. Combeferre has found this in Joly, his ebullient medical school classmate, while Courfeyrac has discovered the charms of young Prouvaire, who gives love so freely and openly. For the first time in months they are mostly content with things as they are.

But neither of them can completely forget the love they have for each other. And that is why they came together this night, why they each abandoned their new lovers: to try again, to determine once and for all if they can make this work. But as the two men turn toward each other afterwards, each struggling to find the right words, they now know the truth.

This can never be.

So they rise from the bed and carefully dress, buttoning their waistcoats and tying their cravats, knowing for certain that this is the last time they will be together in such an intimate fashion. The embrace they share before they part is brotherly rather than romantic, although Courfeyrac cannot help but to pull Combeferre closer for just a brief moment.

“I love you,” he whispers in his friend’s ear, meaning it in every sense of the word.

“And I you,” Combeferre responds, kissing him lightly on the top of the head.

But then they go their separate ways, knowing that even with the passage of time, each man will always be a part of the other. 

 

**

Insomnia has always been one of Joly’s maladies -- a malady not imagined but real, a malady that prompts him to spend the wee hours of the evening allowing his mind to wander to places he would not venture to in the light of day.

And tonight is no exception.

He does not know exactly what transpired between Combeferre and Courfeyrac that night, nor does he really want to know -- all he knows is that Combeferre appeared at his doorstep just after the clock struck midnight, his cravat loosened and his hair disheveled, so uncharacteristic of the fastidious man Joly knows and loves so well.

“It is finished,” was all Combeferre said to him.

And Joly embraced him wordlessly, embracing the half-truth as well.

Courfeyrac will always be a part of Combeferre’s life, Joly knows, for as long as they both live -- which may not be for long, with revolution a perpetual storm cloud on the horizon. There is too much shared history between the two men -- too many battles, too many ghosts -- for their relationship to ever be completely finished.

Joly knows it all, chapter and verse.

And yet he cannot help but to love Combeferre anyway.

For it is Combeferre who steadies him -- who keeps him calm when exams are approaching, who feels his pulse during storms, who convinces him he does not have the cholera on mornings after he’s drank so much he can taste the bile in his mouth. He even aligned his own bed to the poles so Joly would be more comfortable when they spent the night together in Combeferre’s rooms. With Combeferre Joly can finally feel himself at peace -- after the constant sparring with Musichetta and topsy-turvy life he had with Bossuet, Combeferre is exactly what he needs.

So Joly buries that little truth inside his heart, and even if it is something that occupies his thoughts at all hours of the night, he realizes he can live with it.

And he creeps into bed, curling his lanky body around Combeferre’s, his long legs tangling with Combeferre’s, knowing that even a fraction of this man will always be worth having.

**  
Prouvaire is less forgiving of Courfeyrac’s indiscretion -- when Courfeyrac arrives to Prouvaire’s rooms that evening, Prouvaire denies him entrance, his blue eyes flashing as he tells his lover to go home, to leave him be, to not call again until Prouvaire sends for him. He has a twinge of regret when he sees the look on Courfeyrac’s face -- he has never seen Courfeyrac’s face twisted in such anguish -- but he knows it is for the best.

And he knows that sending him away is an act of self-preservation.

Prouvaire is always the one who loves too much and too hard -- the one who falls so easily and gives so much, and the one who is rubbed raw when that love is not returned in kind. He has been hurt before by other men, men who took advantage of his generous spirit and left him weeping and shaking in the end. He cannot, he must not, do this again.

But as he crawls back into his own bed, tugging the blankets over his head, he cannot stop thinking about the look on Courfeyrac’s face.

Up until now Courfeyrac has lived up to the cliche of not being like other men -- he reads Prouvaire’s work constantly, offering both effusive praise and gentle suggestions as appropriate. He brings him flowers and invites him to dine, where he keeps the wine flowing and engages him in conversations that are both wide-ranging and intense. In bed his eyes never leave Prouvaire’s face -- constantly watching him, wanting to know exactly how to bring him to the brink of ecstasy.

Yet he wonders if Courfeyrac does the same for Combeferre.

Unable to sleep, Prouvaire goes to his writing desk, as he so often does, trying to convey in verse the intensity of his emotions. He pulls out his pen and a piece of paper and begins to scribble, Courfeyrac’s anguished face still burned onto his retinas. 

He writes and writes for hours, scrawling a stanza and then crumpling it up, then taking a new sheet and beginning again. The initial words are words of anger, but as he continues, they become words of love.

And finally he places his head on the desk, and begins to cry.

Courfeyrac, he whispers. I love you.

After a long while he raises his head, his mind suddenly as crystal clear as the dawn that is now breaking over the city, and he takes up his final piece of paper, and begins to write not a poem, but a confession of love. The events of last night are forgotten as he pours his heart and soul out to Courfeyrac, offering words of longing and forgiveness. When he finishes, he sits back in his chair, allowing the ink to dry as he surveys his work.

He folds it up, seals it, and takes it downstairs to his landlady’s son, asking him to deliver it to Courfeyrac’s rooms.

And not an hour later, Courfeyrac has returned, bedraggled and half-asleep but lured by Prouvaire’s impassioned plea for his love. 

And this time -- self-preservation be damned -- Prouvaire welcomes him with open arms.


End file.
